The mannequins are only playing dead

by James Knight

at night
the mannequins leave
    their glass prisons

         and hunt owls
   in the forest

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sometimes they dance
      a slo-mo tarantella
            in a clearing

      in the moonlight

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in the morning
back behind glass
their blank looks
give nothing away

behind them
          tills open with a yawn
          and close with a sigh